Stone Soul
by Taywen
Summary: Because there can never be a simple happy ending in Panem. That would be too optimistic and hopeful, after all. AU, slash. Mentions of FinnickAnnie and PeetaKatniss; eventual FinnickPeeta.
1. fashion beats

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc. The lyrics don't belong to me either.

* * *

This is the first in a series of related one-shots I will be writing. They won't be posted linearly (I have at least one story planned that takes place before this one, and I'll probably think of more) so... Sorry if that gets a little confusing.

By the way, listening to the song while reading this story might be a good idea. Most (if not all) of the one-shots will be inspired by songs. Also, the title was inspired by the song of the same name by Finger Eleven. In case you were interested.

* * *

I'm a club rocker that's my personality. It's in fashion to be bla-blasting them beats.  
And I like to go out every night. I like to go out every night. I like to go out every night.

Fashion. Chic. Sexy. Freak.  
Fashion. Chic. Sexy. Freak.  
In fashion. In fashion. In fashion. In fashion.

- _Fashion Beats_, by The Black Eyed Peas

* * *

**Fashion Beats**

Finnick still has not become accustomed to this...desecration. The airheaded girl hanging off his arm is harmless, really. Ignorant and gluttonous and absolutely repellent – but harmless. When he first came to the Capitol, fourteen years old and full of dreams of glory, he actually pitied people like her. His prep team and stylists, stupid sheep with delusions of depth, he found them amusing and inhuman. Now he simply loathes them.

He doesn't hate them, though. His hatred is reserved for those who know the consequences of their actions, but go on with them anyway, the people behind the machine of the government. President Snow. The Gamemakers. He could make a list, but what would that accomplish, besides driving home the fact that he is hopelessly outnumbered?

Eighteen year old Finnick smirks in apparent amusement at something the girl crowded up against him says. He isn't sure what, but from her tone, the expectant look on her face, the way she is pressing her body against his, he knows what his response ought to be.

No, this girl (for she is just a girl; sixteen, at most, but already modifying her body after some abstract, incomprehensible standard of beauty that is unique to the Capitol... but a girl nonetheless) is not a threat. He knows how to deal with her kind. Her father, a prominent Capitol citizen (Finnick hates him too), told him to show his daughter a good time. He wants his baby's first time to be special. Finnick can do that.

He has to, after all.

"What do you think of my dress?" the girl asks, voice loud so as to be heard over the music. She takes a step away to spin in a quick circle, skirt flaring. The dress is an eye-smarting shade of pink, to match her hair. He's so used to looks like these, he barely bats an eyelash anymore.

"I've never seen anything like it," he replies, which isn't a lie, but it's not the compliment she takes it to be either. Allowing his eyes to slide closed halfway, he makes a show of looking her up and down. "Beautiful."

The girl giggles, blushing as she presses closer to him once again. "When I watched the Games on television, I thought you were so handsome..." she confides. "But you're even sexier up close."

Finnick has to bite back a laugh at the absurd things this girl is spouting. Fortunately he is used to the ridiculous attitudes of the people in the Capitol. "We make quite a couple. I'm sure you're the envy of everyone here," he responds, flashing a smirk.

His own attitude is as much of a sham as anything else within the Capitol. Every night of the Hunger Games, he's out with some customer or another. What other choice does he have? President Snow made it very clear what Finnick's role would be when he returned to the Capitol for the 67th Games. A flirtatious playboy, a new woman – or man, depending – hanging off of his arm every few days. He was nothing more than a piece of meat, to be enjoyed, savoured even, but ultimately discarded by the upper echelon of the Capitol. And he has to pretend he likes it. Loves it.

It's a good thing Finnick is an excellent liar.

"Do you want another drink?" she asks, her gaze darting to the bar.

Finnick can't drink anything alcoholic, actually. It interferes with the medication he needs to take so he can perform. He doesn't say this though. "I'd rather stay here and dance with you, Tavia," he murmurs seductively into her ear, fitting his hands around her too-slim waist. He remembers the names of everyone he has been rented out to, though they will always be 'the girl' or 'the man' in his mind. It is easier that way, to not think of them as a real person.

The girl blushes harder, biting her lip. "Finnick, I love you," she blurts out.

The first time a customer told him that, Finnick was at a loss of what to say. He managed to turn it around, to attribute his stunned silence to be pleased surprise. By now, he is used to such foolish, empty declarations.

"There's plenty of time for loving later," he responds smoothly, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "We have all night... Unless you'd rather start now?" His smirk conveys that he'd much prefer the latter, though in reality he wants nothing to do with this shallow, vapid girl.

The girl gazes back at him with obvious adoration. "Let's stay here for a while longer. This club is the most fashionable right now, after all! I want everyone to see me with you, Finnick."

He caresses her cheek briefly, thumbs across her lower lip, leans down until mere millimetres separate their lips. Her breath smells of alcohol, her perfume is overwhelming, overdone to the extreme just like everything else in the Capitol.

"As you wish," he purrs, and he doesn't mean it, not by a long shot, but he finds dealing with people like this girl marginally more tolerable than dealing with the adults. Because not all of his customers are as harmless as this girl, with her innocent ignorance, her casual desecration of his body. She probably thinks it's romantic, holding his hand and rubbing all over his body in the midst of all these people; she isn't actively trying to defile him, though that is no excuse, because she is doing so anyway.

Everything in the Capitol revolves around fashion; one week, this club could be _the_ spot to be. The next, it's out of business, the crowds moving on to the next exclusive venue. And don't get him start about the appearances within the Capitol. Thankfully he isn't expected to alter his appearance in any way; he's enough of a freak as it is. If he were to physically resemble the freaks of the Capitol, with their tattoos and their makeup and everything, he isn't sure he could stand it.

* * *

Afterwards, when the girl is asleep in her luxurious bed, surrounded by the excess of the Capitol, sweaty and sated and ignorant, Finnick rises to leave. This is the arrangement of her father, after all. He gathers his clothes – still intact, which is a luxury he is seldom afforded, actually – and dresses silently, with the ease of long practice. It's amazing the sorts of tricks a whore picks up in two years.

Adjusting the collar of his shirt, meticulously buttoning the garment up, these simple things were nearly impossible the first few times; Finnick's hands shook too badly, revulsion and shame eating at his gut. But he no longer has these problems. Glancing at himself in the mirror to assure that his appearance is meticulous, just the right side of carefree playboy, he flashes a quick smirk.

He exits the room, carefully shutting the bedroom door behind himself; the girl's family is so rich, she has an entire suite to himself. The girl's father is seated casually on the couch. Finnick doesn't even twitch, though the idea that the man might have been outside the room this whole time occurs to him – and disturbs him, not that he lets that show.

"Mr. Roche," he says with false respect, tone low so he doesn't disturb the girl. He gives a bow that's only mostly ironic. He does need to please this man too, after all.

"Finnick Odair," the man replies, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He ignores rising misgivings; the man is married, after all, and Finnick has never heard any rumours about infidelity. He resists the urge to shudder at the way his name rolls off the man's tongue, the irritating Capitol accent rendering familiar syllables almost unrecognizable.

"My daughter seemed very pleased," the man continues, confirming Finnick's suspicions: he had been listening. Disgusting, but Finnick is not even remotely surprised.

"She's a lovely young woman," Finnick lies, smiling.

The man gazes at him, expression unreadable. "Your payment is on the table," he remarks, gesturing. Finnick nods, goes over to collect the meaningless bills. He has no need for money, the prize money from the Hunger Games is more than sufficient for his needs, but he doesn't say that.

"I'll admit, I had my doubts about trusting my little girl to a district whore, but it seems they were unfounded," the man continues. Finnick's hand pauses briefly over the stack of bills, but it's almost imperceptible. He carefully tucks the wad of money into his pocket. "I've recommended you to my friends," he adds, no doubt thinking that this is generous of him.

Finnick clenches his hands then quickly releases them. Tucks them into his pockets before he can do something he will regret. "That is so kind of you, Mr. Roche," he says, humble with just the right amount of awe. "I appreciate it."

The man inclines his hand graciously. "It was nothing, Finnick."

Finnick knows a dismissal when he hears one. Murmuring his goodbyes, he walks out.

This indulgent, cavalier attitude disgusts Finnick. Enjoying something for a few brief, passionate moments before moving on to the next big thing, he can't stand it. Yet he can't help but yearn for the time when going around with the great Finnick Odair will be out of fashion, and he will be just another victor, a past fad.

* * *

This will eventually be a **Finnick/Peeta** story. (I know. Implausible. But I like it, so sue me. Except don't, ok?) It will make sense, or at least I will try to make it make sense. Finnick will still love Annie and of course Peeta will have been smitten with Katniss, but for reasons that you'll discover later on, they're out of the picture.

This story will follow canon pretty closely, until the last few chapters of Mockingjay. Finnick lives, that's all I'm saying for now. Oh, the rating will probably go up later on too ~

Anyway. Comments, thoughts, suggestions? Did I make a glaring grammatical mistake? How was my characterization? Feel free to tell me. I especially enjoy constructive criticism.


	2. names i

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc. The lyrics don't belong to me either.

* * *

This is ten percent luck  
Twenty percent skill  
Fifteen percent concentrated power of will  
Five percent pleasure  
Fifty percent pain  
And a hundred percent reason to remember the name

- _Remember the Name_, by Fort Minor

* * *

**Remember the Name**

Finnick. He's never given much thought to his name, before. It has no meaning, although this is not uncommon in Panem. Well, apparently it does – finick is an old word that means 'to trifle or dawdle'. Great. Every young boy wants to be named something like that. After his mother told him that, well... Suffice to say, Finnick never brought it up again, ever.

* * *

_1o% luck_

The first time someone outside of his district, someone who was actually important, even if marginally so, uttered his name was the day of the Reaping for the sixty-fifth Hunger Games. His family was not wealthy, but they weren't poor either. Finnick was an only child; he'd had an older brother, but he had died before Finnick turned four. His parents scraped together enough money to have him trained for the Games, and it became apparent that he was talented, much more so than most of his peers.

There was jealousy, of course. Finnick Odair, fourteen years old and more skilled than any of his year mates – than any but a few of the eighteen year olds.

Of course, District Four is one of the 'Career' districts, so when Aeneas Birch plucked Finnick's name out of the reaping ball and called it out, the boy (for he was little more than a boy then) was surprised, but not overly alarmed. Fourteen was too young to participate in the Games, but there was never any shortage of volunteers.

_It will be good practice for when I really volunteer_, he thought, climbing the stairs to the stage confidently. An easy smirk, cocky and arrogant, was plastered on his features as he came to a halt beside the other tribute, a seventeen year old girl named Alana. She had volunteered, of course. Male and female Career tributes had little to do with each other, but Finnick knew that she was a strong competitor, one of the most talented in District Four. Still, he wasn't concerned. Someone else would volunteer, of course.

"Any volunteers?" Aeneas asked expectantly, his gaze sweeping across the assembled children. Finnick's did the same, wondering who would step up this year.

Silence. Finnick would have frowned, if he wasn't on camera. He was already part of the show, after all.

"No? No one wishes to-" Aeneas began to ask, his disbelief obvious.

"It's all right, I want to participate," Finnick blurted impulsively, flashing a wide grin in the direction of the sixteen to eighteen sections of male tributes. The age groups that produce the volunteers. "I know the Hunger Games are prestigious, and lots of guys in District Four are missing out on their chance for glory-" his grin became a smirk as he gazed pointedly at the eighteen year olds; his fellow Careers were furious – as they should be, "-but I can't let them steal my chance," he finished triumphantly.

Aeneas appeared taken aback by this declaration, but he nodded. "Of course, that's an excellent attitude. The attitude of a winner!" he said approvingly, and Finnick barely suppressed the urge to shoot a smug look in the direction of the eighteen year olds. He could feel their furious glares on his figure though, and that was almost as satisfying.

Before Aeneas could say the standard line about shaking hands, Finnick turned to Alana, his hand held out for her to shake. "May the best tribute win," he said sincerely.

Alana took his hand, shaking it firmly. There was none of that stupid one-upmanship; she didn't try to crush his hand or anything ridiculous and juvenile like that. An appraising look was in her eyes as she gazed at Finnick evenly. "I intend to," she replied calmly.

Finnick grinned at her.

* * *

_2o% skill_

They were hustled off to the Justice Building, separated, and Finnick found himself alone in an office.

He took the time to consider what had just happened. There was always a certain amount of coaching before a tribute was selected, deciding what angle would best suit a potential tribute and teaching them to play it up beforehand. Finnick's had been a cocky, self-assured brat, which, if he was honest with himself, was not much of a stretch, and it had been easy to slip into the role on-stage.

But still – why had no one else volunteered? Alana was strong, Finnick knew that much, but surely not to the point that she would scare off the male tributes from volunteering. He bit his lip thoughtfully, puzzling it over. He knew that most of the eighteen year olds only had lives as fishermen to look forward to if they didn't win the Games – and given the way he'd heard them talk, some would prefer to die than live like that. So why hadn't they volunteered?

The door opened and Finnick looked up, expecting to see his parents. Instead, Bendon, one of Finnick's few friends, walked in.

"Ben! What are you doing here?" Finnick asked, not unpleased to see the other boy. They were in the same age group, and Finnick often helped him out. Ben was only average at the skills taught to potential tributes, but with Finnick's help, he'd been getting better. Most of the other kids training to be tributes didn't help each other but Finnick thought that was stupid; it wasn't like they were going to end up facing off in the arena, after all. Only one male tribute from each District per year and all that.

"Fin..." Ben muttered, looking miserable. Finnick was only Fin to one person; Ben was the only one Finnick was close to.

"Hey, I'm going to win. Don't look like that!" Finnick said cheerfully, and it almost felt like the truth, except for the fact that everyone knew no one younger than fifteen had ever won a Hunger Games, and those young victors could be counted on one hand.

"Yeah, if anyone has a chance, it's you," Ben agreed, wringing his hands nervously. He almost sounded sincere too. "If only you were-"

"Do you know why no one volunteered this year?" Finnick interrupted, because he didn't want to think about how very different the odds would be if he was even two years older. He'd gotten a growth spurt a couple of months ago, shooting up to over five and a half feet. Fortunately he'd already adjusted to his new proportions, and he had been putting on muscle steadily ever since. But he was still a child - still resembled a boy in the awkward stages of puberty though, gangly but filling out, face still young.

"It's stupid- They were threatened by you, so... So no one volunteered," Ben muttered, looking away.

Finnick frowned. How very...stupid. There really was no other word for it. He shook his head in disbelief. "Well, that's a relief," he said, rather than start ranting about it. "I was beginning to worry that Alana was seriously strong."

Ben cracked a small smile. "No more so than the average volunteer," he said, and they both knew that was a lie, Alana was exceptional, just as Finnick was, but there was no point dwelling on that.

Finnick relaxed. "Any requests on stuff to bring back from the Capitol?" he asked, flopping down onto the couch that had been conveniently provided.

Ben blinked. "Uh... Something nice?"

Finnick snorted. "Right. Got it. 'Something nice'," he mocked.

"Just win, all right?" Ben said, ignoring the teasing.

"Of course."

Ben nodded. "I better get going- I'm missing tracking class," he said, watching Finnick to make sure leaving would be okay with him.

"And considering how bad you are at that, you'd better get going," Finnick replied, smirking.

Ben huffed and walked out, casting one last glance at his friend before the door shut.

Finnick swallowed, trying to ignore the anxiety (it wasn't fear, he told himself) that was making him feel slightly sick. He glanced out the window, looking out over the main square of the city, and beyond that to the ocean. Hopefully the arena this year would involve water.

A few minutes later, the door opened again, this time admitting his parents. His mother looked drawn and worried, his father angry.

"Finnick. What were you thinking, volunteering?" the man demanded.

Finnick bit his lip. "I didn't volunteer. I was reaped," he answered, bristling at his father's tone.

"And no one volunteered for you!" his mother gasped, darting over to sweep him into a hug. Her arms were so thin, so frail, and Finnick remembered that his parents went without to give him this chance at winning, at actually living a life of comfort.

"Apparently they thought it was fitting for someone as young as me to go, or something," he scoffed, trying to ignore the way his throat tightened as he returned her embrace tightly.

"They knew you were talented enough," his father said, his expression unreadable.

"Definitely," Finnick agreed.

A Peacekeeper poked his head through the door. "Time's almost up," he said gruffly.

Finnick nodded, and the man closed the door again.

"Good luck, dear. I know... I know you'll come back to me," his mother murmured tearfully, sniffling. Finnick would have felt better if she'd sounded a bit more certain.

"Take this, Finnick," his father said, holding a hand out. Finnick reached out and his father dropped the object into his hand. A seashell. "This can be your token."

Finnick nodded, his fingers closing around it.

* * *

_15% concentrated power of will_

The Capitol loved him. This, Finnick never doubted. He knew he was attractive, even if he still hadn't finished puberty. His cocky attitude only made the Capitol citizens even more enamoured of him. Even the hideous scaled monstrosity that his stylist had called a costume ('fish have scales,' he'd insisted, as if that was some sort of justification – which it wasn't by the way) hadn't detracted from their positive impression of him. The cheers had been the loudest when he and Alana rode out in their chariot, even more so than it was for District One, who had an attractive pair of Careers, as usual.

His fellow tributes resented him. This, Finnick also expected. Alana seemed to view him as a mixed blessing; District Four would be getting even more sponsors, thanks to him – but he was also dangerous because everyone wanted him to win. The Gamemakers liked to play to the crowd, and while they would never rig the Games completely, over the years Finnick had seen several examples where a popular tribute who was more of an underdog would emerge victorious courtesy of a Gamemaker-controlled event.

There was never any question about whether or not to form the typical 'Career Alliance' as it was unofficially known. Mags, his mentor, had told him about the importance of the Alliance, and even if she hadn't Finnick would have joined it anyway. Doing otherwise was asking to be hunted down and eliminated by the other Careers – sure, they banded together to defeat the other, weaker tributes, but with their superior numbers they could also overpower a more skilled opponent who could be deemed a threat to them all.

And Finnick would definitely have not stood a chance. Garnett, the male tribute from District One, was seventeen, muscular, and one of the best swordsmen Finnick had ever seen. Fancy, eighteen, was his partner and she specialized with throwing knives... It was intimidating, to say the least. And the pair of tributes from Two? They could have been siblings, tall and muscular, both of them over six feet – but they were fast, too. Janus was deadly with a spear, and Lillium used a sword with almost as much skill as Garnett.

They, along with Alana, were Finnick's main competition; the rest of the tributes were weak, or untrained. There was one large boy from District Ten, he was bigger than even Janus. He was untrained, but was making the most of the training time. Finnick thought that he should be the Career Alliance's first target, but being at least three years younger than the other Careers, he mostly kept his opinion to himself.

For his private demonstration with the Gamemakers, Finnick requested to use a trident. Tridents were seldom – if ever – available at the Cornucopia, but if he demonstrated his proficiency with one now, they would hopefully add it to the list of sponsor items. After his demonstration with the trident, Finnick did some work with a spear – which was similar to using a trident – then finished up by acing the edible plants test. (He'd spent most of his time at that station, the memories of last year's Career Alliance losing their supplies early on were still fresh.)

...

Later that day, when he, Alana, Mags, Caesar (Alana's mentor), Aeneas and the District Four stylists were sitting at the table eating another feast, Aeneas asked, "So, what do you think your scores will be?"

Finnick waited for Alana to reply, but when it became apparent that she didn't intend to, he simply said, "I did my best... Hopefully I got an eight or a nine. Janus is so good with a spear though, I think he probably eclipsed me."

Alana shot a flat stare at him, but Finnick couldn't read anything from her. "What do you think you got?" he asked, returning her gaze evenly.

The girl shrugged and returned her attention to the lavish meal before her. "The training scores are going to be aired soon; I don't want to say, in case I'm wrong."

Finnick resisted the urge to roll his eyes, barely. Alana was trying to come off as mysterious and aloof, but they had been around each other enough for Finnick to know when she was pretending.

"Yeah, right. You're good with... what, again? Oh yeah, just about every weapon," Finnick said. "You got at least a nine, and you deserve at least a ten."

"Been watching me, have you?" she asked coolly.

"Like you haven't been doing the same," he responded, refusing to back down.

"Oh, the training score broadcast is going to start soon!" Aeneas interrupted. Mags and Caesar were staring at their tributes thoughtfully.

"No matter your differences here, you should present a unified front to the rest of the Career Alliance," was all Caesar said as they rose to go to the television room.

Alana nodded shortly, and Finnick answered, "Yeah."

Garnett got a nine; Finnick had thought the boy from District One would get a ten, but apparently he'd been wrong. Fancy got an eight, the typical Career score. Janus got a ten and Lillium also got an eight. The two from District Three got a four and a three; no surprise there. Finnick held his breath as the female tribute from Three's face faded away to be replaced by his headshot a moment later.

Ten. He got a ten.

Finnick exhaled heavily, surprised. Surely his demonstration wasn't worth that much?

"That's great, Finnick!" Aeneas crowed enthusiastically, but his eyes widened in surprise when Alana's face appeared.

She got an eleven.

Finnick's heart sank; he'd known Alana was something of a genius with any weapon, but for her to pull an eleven? Tens were usually reserved for the top competitors in the Games; elevens were for people who were exceptional and were handed out rarely.

"Congratulations, Alana!" Finnick exclaimed, giving her an enthusiastic grin and breaking the surprised silence.

Alana shrugged, though she looked smug. "Thanks. You didn't do too badly yourself, kid," she responded.

_Yeah, I was at the top until you appeared_, he thought, irritated and discouraged. He didn't let that show. "We'll definitely be pulling most of the sponsors," he agreed.

Caesar and Mags chimed in after that, and Finnick was left mostly to himself to think. He listened to the conversation with half an ear, answering when appropriate, but his mind was whirling. Fancy seemed to think he was cute, and Garnett viewed him as a somewhat annoying but also tolerable little brother, whereas Alana they saw as a cold, well, bitch. But Janus seemed to favour Alana, and Lillium would probably follow his lead. If Finnick wanted to break up the Career Alliance early, he would be stuck with the weaker allies.

The only other tribute of note was the large boy from Ten; he got an eight.

...

The interviews were held that night. Caesar Flickerman was a completely unnatural shade of bright magenta. Finnick was dressed in a much tamer outfit designed to accentuate the color of his eyes, much to his internal relief. After the chariot costume, he wasn't sure what to expect from his stylist.

Alana continued her mysterious persona, though flashes of her pride showed through, especially when Flickerman asked her about her training score. She brushed him off, thanking him for the compliment but not elaborating any further. Then her buzzer went off, and it was Finnick's turn.

"So, Finnick. You got a ten. That's a remarkable score, and I'm sure you're the youngest tribute to ever receive it," Flickerman remarked, giving him an encouraging smile.

"Yeah, I was a little surprised, but- I mean, I definitely deserved it," Finnick answered cockily, grinning at the crowd. "And if I want to return, well, I'd better be pretty awesome, right?" He winked at the audience.

Sighs could be heard from much of the audience. Finnick was glad his plan to appeared to be working. He was going to need all the outside support he could get.

"Of course, getting a high training score is beneficial," Flickerman agreed. "So what did you do to get such a high score?" he continued, leaning forward conspiratorially.

Finnick shrugged. "Oh, you know. I acted like myself." He smirked. "I did what I had to, to get back home," he added, hoping to divert the conversation away from the topic of his training score.

"Ah, yes. And what are you planning to do when you return to District Four?" Flickerman asked, accepting the diversion easily.

Finnick was momentarily thrown; he hadn't given much thought to winning and returning home. Most of his time had been spent thinking about how he was going to survive in the arena, not the events afterward. "Well, I'll help my parents move into a better place," he answered honestly after a moment. "And, to be honest... I'd love to be able to spend more time in the Capitol. It's amazing!" he gushed, trying to appear an awestruck boy.

The crowd cheered in approval. "You can stay with me anytime, Finnick!" someone yelled, and that set off the rest of the audience.

Finnick grinned, inwardly hoping that it wouldn't ever come to that. From what he had seen of the Capitol so far, it was a place he wouldn't want to stay in for any longer than he absolutely had to. "At this rate, I won't have to go back to District Four at all," he joked.

The buzzer rang, and Finnick rose. He waved at the crowd, who cheered all the louder, then returned to his seat.

Janus was staring at him. Finnick met his gaze calmly, until Alana leaned forward and obstructed their view.

* * *

_5% pleasure_

The arena was a valley of some sort. A wide, forested valley, with almost impossibly high walls dotted by caves. A river, about ten feet deep (deep enough to drown in) and thirty feet wide (long enough to be daunting to cross) cut the valley down the middle - and naturally, the current was abnormally fast. Falling in was tantamount to suicide. The arena was perfectly symmetrical. The Cornucopia sat on a platform, a large bridge, really, in the middle of the river. As far as the eye could see, that was the only bridge.

Of course, the water was freezing, but at least it was fresh. The Career Alliance tested it, after the bloodbath. Eleven tributes died: both from six, nine, and twelve, plus the boys from three, five and eleven, as well as the girls from eight and ten. Finnick killed the boys from three and nine, and the girl from eight. The boy from nine was only twelve, only two years younger than Finnick himself.

At the time, there was the pleasure of a job well done, but now that he was sitting on watch with Garnett, Finnick couldn't stop thinking about it. The only upside was that his three, at least, died instantly. He made sure of that.

In the following days, the number of tributes remaining beside the Career Alliance dwindled down to three; eight tributes remained in all. A weak-looking girl from Six who'd made no impression on Finnick (she'd probably survived so far on luck), the large boy from Ten, and the boy from Eleven. The last two, along with two other allies, had led them into an ambush. Lillium was killed, but so were two of the other tributes.

Finnick didn't care that Lillium was dead; she was one of the weaker Careers anyway, plus she'd been on what Finnick had privately dubbed 'Team Alana'. Of course, Janus and Alana were still on that team, but 'Team Finnick' now had superior numbers.

The Alliance broke up the night of Lillium's death. Janus was clearly pissed about her dying, and had been taking it out on Garnett and Fancy.

"Just lay off," Finnick snapped finally. "No one could have known they formed their own alliance." He was no longer afraid to assert himself around the older tributes, having proven himself in battle to be formidable.

Alana said nothing, watching the others in silence. They were still camped near the Cornucopia, though after a week and a half, their supplies were close to being depleted. Currently, the five tributes were sitting around a fire. The nights were cold.

"You want to fight, little boy?" Janus demanded, eyes narrowed in anger.

"Of course not," Finnick sneered back. "I wouldn't want to waste my time, but more than that, there's still the other two from Ten and Eleven to deal with." His spear was laid across his lap, one hand resting on the shaft in preparation for an attack.

"He's right," Garnett agreed, siding with Finnick, as expected. He saw Fancy nodding out of the corner of his eye, and this comforted him. Although Garnett had gotten the higher training score, Finnick had noticed that Fancy was actually the more dangerous, as well as being the unofficial leader of the two; he wondered if she'd deliberately gotten an average Career score to make herself less of a threat.

Janus snarled angrily, jumping to his feet. His threw one of his spears across the fire at the boy across from him. Garnett jerked to his feet, yanking his sword free of its sheath to deflect the attack. The rest of the Alliance rose as well, retreating back to a safe distance. The fire separated Alana from Finnick, but Fancy was standing beside him. Her attention seemed to be one the remaining two tributes, however.

Garnett kicked a flaming log at Janus, luckily escaping setting his clothes on fire as he leaped at the larger tribute. Janus dodged, blocked his attack with the shaft of his remaining spear, then twisted it around in an attempt to slash his opponent.

Alana was starting to move around the fire, her attention split between Finnick and the fighting tributes. Finnick followed, keeping an equal distance between them and also moving towards the now-discarded spear. It wouldn't hurt to have another weapon, after all.

There was a cry of pain, and Garnett staggered back, bleeding from a cut across his torso. Apparently Janus' superior reach had proven, well, superior. Just as Janus drew back for the killing blow, a knife whistled in from the side. He twisted, trying to dodge, and the blade lodged in his upper arm – his dominant arm, more importantly.

Fury, and probably adrenalin, caused Janus to yank the blade out as if it was nothing. He turned on Fancy, arm drawing back to throw his spear at the girl, who was scrambling to grab her next knife.

Finnick got there first. Janus' features registered surprise, and then a cannon was booming as he fell, a spear transfixing his heart. Fancy's gaze flicked to him, and she nodded once. There was another boom as Alana slit Garnett's throat; well, he was dead anyway.

Finnick snatched up Garnett's backpack, then turned and fled. Alana moved to follow, a knife flying from her hand at him, but she was forced back as Fancy threw more knives at her.

He winced as the knife sliced his arm, but only slowed to pick the knife up as he passed. He chose the west side of the valley; the boys from District Ten and Eleven were on the east side of the river, and Finnick didn't want to risk being ambushed in the night.

Holed up for the night in a cave about twenty feet off the ground, Finnick slumped to the ground beside the backpack he'd managed to grab. He examined his arm; luckily, the cut wasn't serious, though it seemed to be bleeding quite a bit. Finnick was pretty used to pain by now, though. He dug through the backpack, finding a small med kit. He contemplated washing out the wound with water from Garnett's water bottle, but he didn't know when he'd next find water. As far as the Careers had seen, the only source of water was the river.

Binding the wound as best he could with the small roll of bandages was all Finnick could do. Garnett also had a pair of glasses that allowed tributes to see at night. He raised an eyebrow at this find, having been unaware that Garnett had these, but quickly stuck them on. Besides that and the med kit, there was some jerky, a full water bottle, another empty one, a plastic container, a book of matches, some water purifying tablets and a few days' old bread. Oh, and the knife he'd received from Alana. He tucked that into his belt, at the small of his back.

Finnick explored the rest of the cave and was surprised to find water trickling down at the back to form a small pool. He filled the other water bottle with it and dropped a purifying tablet in, just to be sure.

He fell asleep thinking about his kills. Though he of course took satisfaction in being good at what he did, there was no pleasure in the act of actually ending his fellow tributes' lives. Well, that wasn't strictly true; he'd felt considerable pleasure at eliminating Janus, who had been a near-constant source of antagonism throughout the Games.

* * *

_5o% pain_

When he woke the next morning, his arm ached and the blood had seeped through his bandage. Finnick splashed some of the cave water over it and rewrapped it (thankfully the bleeding seemed to have stopped now), but the roll of bandage was going to run out in a few days at this rate.

Finnick repacked the backpack, shivering slightly. Fortunately the days were warm to make up for the cold nights. He peered carefully out over the cliff, but no one seemed to be around so he quickly climbed down and entered the forest. It was better to be in the forest, there was less chance of being spotted that way. If you were spotted on the cliffs, you died; even if you could make it down to the forest, you would still have given away your location.

He walked back towards the Cornucopia, keeping an ear open. His stomach grumbled, but he didn't want to eat his remaining supplies just yet; fortunately, he came across a bush of blueberries. He ate as many as he could, then filled the plastic container with the rest.

When he reached the Cornucopia, the area was deserted. He could see the remnants of their fire, but all the other supplies had disappeared. It would have been impossible for either Fancy or Alana to carry them (and there had been no other cannon, so they must both still be alive) so one of them must have dumped them into the river.

Finnick wished he'd thought of that, but he hadn't been ready to face Alana at that point and getting away had been his chief concern. A sudden thought occurred to him: what if Alana and Fancy had teamed up? Surely they would have fought to the death...

No, Fancy wouldn't have done that. She and Alana did not get along at all, that much he knew. Plus, Finnick had saved her life... Maybe he shouldn't have.

Doubts plagued his thoughts, but Finnick pushed them away, turning around to travel south. The river became more of a swamp there, and the trees were strewn with strong, rope-like vines. He could use those to make a net, and set traps.

"I'm not done yet," he muttered grimly, hitching his backpack higher on his shoulders and tightening his grip on his spear.

...

The walk took several hours; it was mid-afternoon by the time Finnick reached the swampy area. It was also several degrees warmer. He walked until he was about halfway in, collecting suitable vines as he went. He kept an eye on the now slow-moving river that was really more of a swamp now. He knew there were mutts – alligordiles, a deadly combination of alligators and crocodiles – in the water down here; the Career Alliance had been chasing a girl, and she'd made the mistake of trying to cross the river to escape them. She hadn't made it far before the alligordiles got her; Fancy's knife in the back had been a mercy, really. None of them had wanted to watch the girl get eaten.

A cannon boomed, startling him from his thoughts. It sounded far away though. Finnick's eyes narrowed, but he didn't waste any time wondering who it was. Deeming himself far enough in, he turned away from the and made his way deeper into the forest. He was reasonably sure that the mutts wouldn't come in this far, but it wouldn't hurt to be careful. Spotting a sturdy-looking tree, Finnick decided to climb it. The branches higher up were obscured by foliage, so it was a good place to hide out while he was making his net.

A startled squeak put him instantly on guard before he could begin, and he spun around to face the new danger, spear readied. He saw the terrified, emaciated face of the District Six girl, before she jumped out of a tree and bolted. Not fast enough; Finnick's instincts took over, and a cannon boomed, announcing her death. He walked over, jerking the spear out. He wiped her blood off on some grass, then retreated to let the hovercraft pick her up. She had no supplies, unsurprisingly; he had been right about luck allowing her to live for so long.

He decided to take her hiding spot. It was morbid, but the thick foliage had ensured that he hadn't noticed her at all. She was his sixth kill. By himself, Finnick had already accounted for a quarter of the tributes, and he felt guilt for all but one of those deaths. Janus didn't count; he'd volunteered for the Games, had gone in knowing that he was probably going to die, whereas the others that Finnick had killed had been innocents whom the odds had failed.

_Thunk_. Finnick twitched, tensing, but it was only a silver parachute landing in front of him. He'd received a considerable amount of gifts throughout the Games, luxury food mostly, since he hadn't exactly needed much, being a well-stocked Career, but the item sitting before him... His eyes widened in shock.

He recovered a moment later, hurriedly snatching up the beautiful silver trident. He tore the parachute off then clutched the weapon to his chest. This was by far the most extravagant gift he'd ever seen granted in the Games.

Knowing that a camera must be on him, Finnick gave a smile that for once didn't feel completely forced. "Thank you," he said quietly, sincerely. "I'm in the debt of my generous sponsors." He bowed his head slightly for several moments, gazing at his wonderful new weapon.

His mind was racing, plots forming as he studied it. Though spears and tridents were similar in some aspects, the three prongs were a huge advantage when fighting someone with a spear or a sword. Against knives, there wasn't any real advantage, but Finnick was fairly certain Alana's favoured weapon was a sword. That didn't mean she couldn't use a knife (because she'd demonstrated her proficiency numerous times) but she was more likely to rely on a sword. He hoped, anyway.

And he wondered why he had received such an expensive gift, when Alana was still a contender in the Games. Surely it wouldn't make sense to spend most of District Four's sponsorship funds on Finnick when she was clearly in a good (probably even better than him) position to win the Games. Unless it was her cannon that had gone off before? Somehow he doubted it.

"I'll rest for a day or two," he decided aloud, "then go hunting for the remaining tributes." Hopefully that promise would be enough to keep the audience satisfied while he went about the relatively boring task of weaving his net, and thus keep the Gamemakers off his back. Plus, he was sure Fancy and Alana were still out there, somewhere.

Finnick wedged his spear into the trunk of the tree, then hooked his backpack on it securely, making sure that it wouldn't fall off. He set his trident close at hand, but out of the way of the vines he'd collected, so that it wouldn't get tangled in the net.

He wove until he was squinting in the failing light as the sun went down. He took a brief break to drink some water and nibble on some of the berries he'd collected.

Finnick had just pulled out the night vision glasses when the anthem began to play. He glanced up expectantly, watching as four faces flashed across the sky. First Janus, then Garnett, then the girl from Six. And finally... the boy from Eleven. Finnick's eyes widened at that; how had the boy from Eleven died without the boy from Ten dying too? Presumably Fancy or Alana found them, but since neither of them were dead, he knew there was no way for them to have been killed by the pair of boys, and he didn't think either of the girls would hesitate to kill the boys...

Had Ten killed Eleven? But that didn't make sense either, even if they knew the Career Alliance had broken up (well, actually it was rather obvious) it didn't make their odds much better, so betraying each other would amount to nothing. Alone, Ten was even more vulnerable.

Frowning to himself, Finnick continued with his weaving until he was close to falling asleep. He settled himself securely, setting the net aside so he wouldn't end up tangled in it if he had to move suddenly, ate a bit of the jerky, then placed his trident close at hand. Satisfied that this was as safe as he was going to be, Finnick fell into a light sleep.

...

The anthem woke him the following morning, and he almost fell out of the tree. Thankfully his fast reflexes saved him, though he managed to reopen the wound on his arm. "Great," he muttered, wrapping the remainder of his bandages around the wound. It would be too much to hope for more medical supplies now, especially since he'd already received such an expensive gift just the day before.

Suddenly Finnick heard yelling coming from the direction of the river/swamp. The voice was familiar; it was Alana... But he couldn't hear anyone else.

He grabbed his net, which was mostly finished, and threw it to the ground. He pulled his spear out of the tree, holding it in one hand and his trident in the other. Finnick decided against bringing his backpack; it would only slow him down in a fight, and if he died, well, he wouldn't need it anyway. If he lived, he could always come back and get it.

Finnick scrambled down as best he could, with both hands full, then slung the net over his uninjured shoulder. He crept as quickly through the trees as he dared while still remaining stealthy. The yells had subsided, but no cannon had fired.

When he reached the water's edge about ten minutes later, he was shocked by what he saw. Alana was lying on the ground, bleeding from a wound on her leg and another on her arm. There was also a puncture wound on her chest, though miraculously it seemed to have missed her vital organs. Her skin, tanned like his own, was pale from the blood loss. Finnick would have thought that she was close to death, but the dead alligordile lying half in, half out of the water and the bloody sword clutched in her hand suggested otherwise. Still, she was lying on her back, breathing heavily with her eyes closed.

"Kid," she said, her sky blue eyes boring into him.

"Alana," he responded, raising his spear defensively.

Her eyes darted to the trident clutched in his other hand and she gave a bitter laugh, which became a ragged cough. "Hah. Given up on me, have they?" she questioned cynically, a bitter sneer on her face. She dragged herself into a sitting position, but made no further move.

"It looks that way," he agreed with a mocking grin. Inwardly he felt sick. He hadn't enjoyed watching his fellow Careers taunt the weaker tributes before they killed him, and it felt worse to be doing so himself. Appearances needed to be kept though.

"Don't let's pretend," Alana retorted, coughing again. She spat out a mouthful of blood. "When did you get that, kid?"

Finnick scowled at her. He hated being called kid. "Yesterday, after I killed District Six," he responded coldly.

"After I got injured, then," she said, shrugging. A grimace of pain suggested that this wasn't a good idea.

"Maybe," he answered. "What happened?"

"Teamed up with Fancy. She convinced me to go after District Ten and Eleven first. Said that my knife would kill you. I should've made sure," Alana added bitterly, looking pointedly at the bandage on his upper arm. The wound was an annoyance, but certainly not fatal.

"You teamed up with Fancy?" Finnick asked disbelievingly. "She was the most dangerous one of us all. Didn't you realize that?"

Alana glared at him. "_You_ were the most dangerous one, Finnick."

"Well, yeah, but other than me," he agreed, smirking.

"I didn't... I thought I could use her to eliminate the other two, then get rid of her," Alana continued, her voice quiet but furious as she remembered. "We tracked down the boys soon enough... Actually, we split up and Fancy found them," she corrected, spitting the other girl's name out viciously.

"She teamed up with District Ten," Finnick realized, his voice betraying his surprise.

Alana nodded jerkily. "District Eleven came at me; I killed him, but Fancy and District Ten double-teamed me. I escaped by throwing myself in the river. Lost all my supplies, except this sword." She raised it, but didn't seem about to make a move so Finnick let her. "I managed to pull myself out once the current slowed, and somehow made my way to here. Passed out. When I woke up, that mutt was making a move, and now here we are."

Finnick nodded his understanding, but didn't say anything. What could he say to that?

"District Ten found an axe somewhere. He's not a genius with it, but he can use it well enough," Alana stated, her voice dull now. "And you already know Fancy's a demon with knives. It seems the only thing she was hiding was how cunning she was."

Finnick twitched. "Why are you telling me this?" he demanded, though he already knew the answer.

"Look, kid. I know we had our differences-"

"Have. We have our differences," Finnick corrected, not knowing why he was doing so.

"Shut up, I'm trying to go out with dignity here. The least you could do is actually cooperate and go along with my plans for once," Alana snapped, and Finnick kept his mouth shut. After a moment, she continued, "We had our differences, but if I had to pick between that bitch and a brat like you to win the Games, I'd pick you. So don't be the whiny little brat that you've been this whole time and man up."

Finnick swallowed. "Fine," he said coolly, calmly. "Is that all you can tell me about those two?"

Alana smirked. "Nice. That's what I'm talking about. I wounded Fancy's right arm – but she's ambidextrous. Still, it's a better advantage than nothing."

He nodded again. "I guess that's more than I could have hoped for, from you."

Alana laughed, then tossed her sword away. "Exactly. Now do it, kid. Finish me off."

He hesitated, which was odd. He'd spent the majority of his time trying to plan how to eliminate her; she was his biggest obstacle, smart, strong, fast. And now he was hesitating.

"Don't make me beg, Finnick," she said quietly. Alana actually saying his name was more surprising than the proud girl saying 'please' to him; it was the begging that she claimed to not want to resort to.

Finnick took a deep breath, stepping forward. He dropped his spear, readying his trident. Her eyes never left his, and he had to struggle to hold her blue gaze, but he did it.

"I'll win," he promised as he plunged the weapon into her heart.

_Boom!_

* * *

_& 1oo% reason to remember the name_

Finnick retreated to allow the hovercraft to take Alana's corpse away. Once it was removed, he set his trap. Knot-tying was his strong suit, after killing people, and it didn't take him longer than an hour to set up the net. He placed Alana's discarded sword as bait, knowing that District Ten and Fancy will be coming to this area to hunt him.

He returned to his backpack, ate the rest of his supplies. There was no point in conserving them, things will be over soon, probably by the end of the day.

...

Finnick took up a position on a tree close enough to the water's edge so that he could see the trap, but far enough away that he wouldn't be able to be seen.

He even dozed for a bit in the noontime sun. The warmth made him lethargic, but as soon he heard voices, Finnick was instantly alert.

"Look! The cannon firing must have been for Alana's death," a masculine voice exclaimed loudly. It must be District Ten.

"I told you to shut up! We're tracking them, you idiot," Fancy snarled. Finnick watched with a detached fascination as she calmly pulled out a knife (with her left hand – Alana was telling the truth) and slit her partner's throat.

He deserved it, trusting Fancy enough to let her walk behind him. Finnick was unsurprised. He took the opportunity to throw his spear at her from behind, but she must have heard it coming because she managed to dodge – though it still sliced her thigh.

Finnick jumped down from his perch and lunged at her with his trident. Fancy managed to dodge and deflect the blow with one of her knives.

"You shouldn't have saved my life," she said, smirking. "Now you'll die, and it will be Fancy Beaumont who killed you!"

"You can't kill me. And you did what I hoped. Distracted Alana, and eliminated her too!" Finnick slashed at her again on the last word, but she dodged once more, flinging a knife at him. He knocked it away with the shaft of his trident.

"You think you're so smart, don't you?" Fancy demanded furiously, lunging with another of her knives. "If it wasn't for you, I would have had so many more sponsors!"

"Because I'm handsome?" he sneered back, blocking and attacking in turn. "Hate to break it to you, Fancy, but you're nothing special to look at. Lillium would've drawn more sponsors than you if it wasn't for me!"

Before Fancy could respond, a snarl interrupted their fight, and a ridiculously fast-moving alligordile suddenly lunged at them. They broke apart, dodging in opposite directions. Two more alligordiles erupted from the water, going for each of the tributes. The middle alligordile turned on Finnick. Of course.

Finnick backed up slowly, his trident raised defensively – and tripped. He fell back, scrambling wildly. His hand fell on the shaft of his spear. He reacted instinctively, hurling the weapon at the closest alligordile; the spear pierced its skull, and the mutt died. Finnick jumped to his feet, spearing the other alligordile with his trident.

A scream drew his attention back to Fancy, who was caught in his net. The alligordile must have driven her into his trap. Unfortunately, the net only hung about six inches above the ground – meaning Fancy was still within reach of the alligordile. Finnick lunged at the alligordile as it bit into Fancy's leg, tearing away a chunk of flesh. It snarled at him as his trident pierced its back and retreated to the water, taking Finnick's trident with it.

Fancy was cutting frantically at the vine net, but it was tough and well-made; she wasn't having much luck, and given the copious amount of blood spewing from her leg, she wasn't going to last long.

Finnick pulled out Alana's knife. It cut into him when he fell, but the wounds must be relatively shallow because he barely noticed them.

"No! Please, no!" Fancy sobbed, trying to free her knife, no doubt to throw it at him. But her panicked flailing only succeeded in tangling her hopelessly in the net.

"It will be me, Finnick Odair, who kills you," he told her, stepping within striking distance. He yanked her head back, and drew Alana's knife across her throat.

_Boom!_

Trumpets blared, and Claudius Templesmith roared, "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm pleased to give you the victor of the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games—FINNICK ODAIR!"

* * *

A/N: This one was a lot longer than the first lol. I just got inspired and wrote pretty much all of it in one night. Weird.

I know, there's been no Peeta yet. Next chapter will have him. Maybe. (Is my blatant bias for Finnick showing yet? :P)

Soo... Comments, thoughts, suggestions? Did I make a glaring grammatical mistake? Feel free to tell me, I barely proofread and don't have a beta. (Should I really be admitting to that?) I especially enjoy constructive criticism.


	3. celebrity status ii

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc. The lyrics don't belong to me either.

* * *

When the mirrors and the lights and the smoke clear  
I'd never guess how we ever could have got here.  
You can say what you say when the lights go down,  
So shake shake shake, and shut your mouth.

- _Celebrity Status_, by Mariana's Trench

A/N: I swear, I was going to do a chapter from Peeta's POV, but then this song jumped me, and, well, here we are. It includes Peeta, at least..! Uh, warning: **character death(s).**

* * *

**Celebrity Status (ii)**

Katniss shoots President Coin.

There is a beat of stunned silence.

Finnick and Peeta, the only other survivors of the 'Star Squad', were standing beside her onstage. Finnick was personally sickened that Coin had wanted to usher in the new government – _her _new government - with such a disgusting spectacle. He thought Snow deserved to die, yes, but this public execution was hardly the way to go about doing it. This decision, along with the suggestion to hold a final Hunger Games for the children of prominent Capitol citizens (the votes had been tied; Finnick, Annie, Peeta and Beetee against, Katniss, Haymitch, Enobaria and Johanna for – but Coin cast her own vote in favour, thus making the final decision) only confirmed a thought that had been lurking at the back of Finnick's mind for a long time: Coin and Snow were exactly the same. Two sides of one coin; reflections in a mirror.

Time moves again; the crowd roars in outrage as Snow gives a sick, bloody laugh that develops into a coughing fit. None of the three victors on the stage notice this, however.

Finnick watches as Katniss twists her head, raising her arm simultaneously. He realizes what she's going to do seconds before it actually happens. From the look of horror on Peeta's face, his outstretched hand – he realizes too.

They realize too late. Peeta's hand closes on empty air; Finnick sees her throat work as she swallows the nightlock pill.

For one surreal moment, a series of images flashes before his eyes: a blond boy tossing a burned loaf of bread; a handmade bow; a goat with a pink ribbon; a pond in the middle of a forest; Gale's grey eyes staring up without regret as she drops the holo; rising flames–

Katniss staggers back, her knees failing. Peeta falls with her, words spilling from his lips – please, Katniss, don't do this, you don't need to, why – as Finnick stands beside them, frozen. His mind tells him it's already too late, Peeta's words are in vain, but he doesn't voice this thought.

Finnick is half-expecting a cannon to boom, announcing the death of the Girl on Fire. One doesn't come, of course; the only sounds are the yells of the crowd and the struggle in front of the stage as the soldiers try to keep the crowd away.

"Katniss, Katniss, Katniss..." Peeta is moaning, rocking her back and forth in his arms. Her gray eyes are open, but they hold none of the determination that Finnick has become familiar with.

Gunshots split the air.

"Everyone, stay calm!" an authoritative voice orders. It's Commander Paylor – the leader of the rebels in District Eight. Her name is Florence, Finnick remembers dully, his mind still working even though he wants nothing more than to break, as Peeta is doing.

"The Mockingjay!" people cry, half-despairing, half-angry.

"You need to go, Finnick," Paylor says in an undertone, sparing a sorrowful glance to them. "Take him with you."

Finnick meets her eyes, nods his understanding. This is something he can do. He kneels beside Peeta, clasps his shoulder with as much strength as he can muster. "Peeta," he says quietly, urgently.

Anguished, tear-bright blue eyes meet his for a moment, then Peeta hugs Katniss' corpse to him. "I won't go, I won't leave her, won't, I won't, I won't!"

Finnick glances around. Despite the temporary reprieve after Paylor fired those shots, the crowd is still more mob than anything. They need to go.

"Peeta. Peeta, we need to go. You and-" Finnick's throat tightens, he doesn't think he can say her name, but he does, "-and Katniss. We have to go, all of us."

"I won't go," Peeta mutters, rubbing the palm of one hand against his temple. "Can't- It's not real, it's not. Finnick, real or not real?" he asks, looking up at Finnick with those blue, blue eyes.

Finnick swallows, has to force himself to hold that intense, pleading gaze. "We have to get out of here. We have to get Katniss out of here," he says, hating himself for his weakness, but seeing no alternative. "People are angry... At Katniss. You don't want her to get hurt, do you?" he questions gently.

Peeta flinches. "No, no. Don't want that," he agrees, rising. The body is held bridal-style in Peeta's arms. Finnick thinks he is going to be sick. "Grab her bow, she wouldn't want it to be left behind," Peeta orders to him, and he complies without protesting. It seems that playing on Peeta's protective instincts was the right choice, but Finnick hates himself for taking advantage like that anyway.

Paylor grabs his shoulder as he moves to follow Peeta off the stage. "There's a car- It will take you somewhere safe," she tells him. Finnick nods and pulls away. He isn't sure if he should trust this woman, but she seems to be a better person than Coin and Snow, and that is an improvement anyway.

"This way, Peeta," he says, hurrying up to the blond. He slips his hand around Peeta's upper arm, guiding him to the armoured vehicle. Haymitch and Plutarch are waiting within; as soon as the door closes behind Finnick, they speed away.

Haymitch has that look on his face, the one that appears after every bloodbath in the Hunger Games, after he has lost another pair of tributes, except it seems ten, no, a thousand times worse this time. Finnick glances out the window, watching the brightly-coloured Capitol buildings blur as they go past.

"Who left the nightlock pill on her suit?" Plutarch demands, and Finnick hates him in that moment. Peeta gets there first, though.

"This is your fault," Peeta spits, grief transforming into righteous fury. Finnick thinks he knows Peeta pretty well, but he never expected this kind of fire from him. "You- This is all just a game to you, it always was! The stupid public execution- The Hunger Games-" He lunges at the former Gamemaker, but Haymitch and Finnick grab each of his arms. Katniss' body, which had been laid across his lap, rolls off to the floor of the vehicle with a dull thump.

Peeta looks stricken, caves in on himself. He gathers the corpse back into his arm, brushes her hair away from her face, busies himself with fixing the parts of her uniform that had been knocked awry.

Finnick is privately horrified. Plutarch says nothing, staring thoughtfully at the blond, and that scares Finnick even more; how can the man regard this kind of disaster with such detached objectivity? There are casualties in war, always, but Katniss is not just another statistic. Katniss is not another nameless, faceless soldier, thank you for your bravery, your memory will be honoured, your sacrifice will not be forgotten. Katniss is- Katniss is-

"I need a stiff drink," Haymitch mutters. A choked sob can be heard from Peeta.

...

Finnick has the best intention of staying with Peeta and Haymitch and dealing with the fallout of Katniss' suicide and her assassination of President Coin, but as soon as they get back to the Training Centre, he finds himself separated from them.

"Finnick," Annie breathes, her hands clutching his arm tightly. He pulls her closer, pressing his face into her dark hair.

"I'm fine," he assures her, leading her away from the crowd/mob that has taken up residence in the lobby. They get onto an elevator, and Finnick presses the button for the fourth floor.

"But Peeta- and Katniss..." Annie mumbles, her hands fisting into the material of his shirt. She doesn't seem to want to let him go; Finnick can't blame her for that. He isn't too keen on releasing her anytime soon either.

"Katniss is dead," Finnick says. He is surprised and yet not surprised that he is angry about Katniss committing suicide. Angry at Katniss, at Coin, at himself, the Capitol... He pushes his anger away, needs to focus on comforting Annie.

She gives a choked sob, almost hidden under the ding that signals their elevator has reached its destination. He's been coming to this floor for years; his mind flashes to all the people that the Capitol has stolen life from who once inhabited this floor, however briefly: Mags, and Caesar, and all the other victors (though, to be fair, he imagines that the rebels took out a fair number of the victors themselves) and all those tributes.

"It's going to be okay, Annie," Finnick says, and he almost believes it. Except Katniss is dead, Peeta and Haymitch are broken, and as for Annie... Finnick needs to be strong for her.

"But Peeta... What is Peeta going to do?" Annie asks, pulling away to gaze up at him with her ever-innocent, sea green eyes. They're almost the mirror image of his own, except Finnick knows that his eyes will never portray such innocence.

"Peeta's strong. He'll... survive," Finnick says, which isn't a lie, but he thought Katniss was strong, was a survivor, too. He distracts himself from these thoughts by tightly clasping their hands together as he leads her out of the elevator.

Annie nods, seeming to accept this answer. At another time, Finnick would despair at how easily her thoughts are lightened, how simple it is to convince her of important matters, but right now he is just grateful that she seems to be... not happy, but content, once more.

"We'll help him," Annie agrees. "He'll survive; we'll make him, won't we?"

Absurdly, Finnick feels the urge to smile at this hesitant declaration. "Of course. Victors need to stick together," he answers, leading her to the room that they've claimed for themselves; it is what used to be the male mentor's room.

"Except for Enobaria. She can survive on her own," Annie decides. Finnick can't argue with that. The last remaining victor from District Two is certainly tough enough... But then, he's always thought Johanna was one of the toughest people he's ever met, and she is still marked by what the Capitol put her through.

On second thought, he doesn't think he will ever voice that comparison. He likes keeping his limbs attached.

"Unless she asks for help," Finnick concludes, wincing slightly at the direction his thoughts are going.

"Well, yes. But I don't think she will," Annie agrees, shrugging slightly.

And then they are in their room. Annie tugs shyly on his sleeve, so different from the presumptuous, demanding touches of his 'clients' that Finnick cannot say no – not that he would want to, because this is Annie, the tribute he had to mentor, the woman he came to love, the last and most important member of his family-

The woman he married.

Finnick leans down slightly, presses their lips together, allows Annie to lead him to their bed. He can certainly understand her need to ensure that he is in fact fine, and whole, and alive.

...

Sometime later, Finnick is laying beside Annie, idly running his fingers through her dark hair as she dozes.

Through the partially open door, he hears the ding of the elevator. His gaze flicks to the door and he tenses slightly.

"Finnick? Annie?" calls a familiar voice. It's Beetee.

Annie stirs, her eyes opening sleepily. This is testament to how far she has come from her time in the Capitol, after Finnick and Katniss and Beetee escaped the arena. Whenever someone startled her, Annie would freeze up, but now she is calm, feels safe in Finnick's presence again. "Is that Beetee?" she murmurs, rubbing a hand over one eye.

"Mm. I'll go see what he wants," Finnick answers. "Just a sec, Beetee," he calls back in response; it's no secret what he and Annie have been doing, but it could potentially be awkward if the other victor walked in on them in bed together.

He reluctantly leaves Annie, kissing her lightly before he climbs out of bed, pulls on the pair of pants he was wearing earlier, then walks out to the main area of the floor.

Beetee blinks once, seeing Finnick's bare chest and feet, but otherwise doesn't react. It takes a lot to shake most victors, and Beetee is no exception. "There you are. How's Annie?" the man asks.

"Shaken," Finnick answers, because it's true. He imagines they're all shaken by Katniss' actions. He has a feeling he knows what Beetee wants to discuss, so he leads the man to the dining room. That way, Annie won't have to overhear anything.

"How are things–?" Finnick asks, glancing out the window. There are people on the streets, but it doesn't seem like total chaos down there, so he supposes things must not be too bad.

"Peeta and Haymitch are getting drunk," Beetee replies, frowning slightly. "Johanna isn't too far behind."

Finnick exhales heavily, runs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "Not exactly unexpected," he says quietly, sadly.

Beetee nods. "Paylor's here- she wants to discuss what our next move will be. We're meeting on the twelfth floor," he explains.

Ah. That explains things. "Do you think she-"

The other victor shakes his head. "I don't think so. She seems much more sincere than Snow or Coin ever was; not to mention she was actually an active part of the rebellion, rather than directing things behind the scenes."

Finnick accepts Beetee's assessment, because while he might have participated in the bombing of innocent children, Beetee is honest and an excellent judge of situations.

"I'll be up in a few minutes," Finnick says; he wants to be a part of the shaping of the new nation of Panem, and someone who knows what happened in the Capitol when their squad was separated from the main portion of the rebel army needs to be there. Peeta hardly counts, because he was damaged before, and is doubtless in no shape to help make decisions of any sort.

Beetee nods again. "I'll go tell them," he says, then returns to the elevator. Finnick stands for a moment in front of the window, staring down at the mass of people who seem to be waiting for...something. Finnick doesn't know what they expect, but hopefully between them the victors and Paylor will come up with something suitable.

Annie is dressed when he returns to the room. She helpfully hands him a clean shirt and a new pair of socks.

Finnick blinks, but puts the garments on nonetheless. "There's a meeting on the twelfth floor," he explains. Annie nods, as if she anticipated this. Apparently she did.

...

There is a long table in the dining room on the twelfth floor. Haymitch and Peeta sit at one end, surrounded by a seemingly endless supply of alcohol. Finnick bites his lip, but doesn't protest when Annie leads him to that side and sits them down beside Peeta.

Enobaria is sitting across from them, towards the middle of the table. Her face is as impassive as ever. Johanna is on Annie's other side, Beetee beside Enobaria and Plutarch and Paylor sit at the other end.

"Excellent, now that everyone's here, we can begin discussion," Plutarch says, starting the ball rolling.

Finnick would glare at him, but he thinks that might upset Annie, so he settles for staring hard at the bottle of alcohol sitting in front of him. Peeta is swaying slightly in his seat, an unfocussed look in his eyes.

"Are we still going through with the last iteration of the Hunger Games?" Beetee asks, frowning slightly. "I think there should be a new vote, at the very least."

Plutarch nods. "True. Who's in favour of holding one last Game?"

"My answer is still no," Finnick says firmly. Annie nods in agreement beside him. Peeta stirs.

"No," he mutters, somehow managing to slur the word.

Haymitch breaks the bottle of beer, or something like that, that he is holding. "Yes, I'm in favour," he says hoarsely.

"I still think they should get a taste of what they inflicted on the districts," Enobaria puts in coldly.

"Amen," Johanna snaps, her voice cracking. "It's what Katniss wanted."

Peeta stiffens at Finnick's side. "She was grieving for the death of her sister," he spits angrily, leaning forward to glare across Annie and Finnick at Johanna.

"Yeah? And aren't you grieving for her?" Johanna shoots back, half-rising out of her seat in anger. "Shouldn't you be doing what she would have wanted, now that she can't?"

"Don't use her to justify your bad decisions," Peeta retorts, moving to rise as well. Annie places a hand on Johanna's arm, which seems to calm her. Finnick grasps Peeta's arm too, digging his fingers into the faded yet still reddened band from the handcuffs that is still around Peeta's wrist. The blue eyes flicker to Finnick's for a moment, then Peeta slumps back in his chair, jerking his arm out of Finnick's grasp.

Plutarch clears his throat. "Very well, that's three in favour and three against. Beetee..?"

"I'm still against it," Beetee says, looking slightly uncomfortable to be the deciding vote.

Johanna snarls under her breath, but doesn't comment.

"So, there won't be any further Hunger Games," Paylor summarizes. "Next issue: what should be done about the new government? With Coin gone, there isn't anyone else to step up as president."

"That's easy; you want to be president, don't you?" Peeta says coldly and clearly. His voice sounds like it did when he first returned from the Capitol. Finnick doesn't like it, even if the blond is merely voicing what he had already been thinking. "I mean, why else would you be here?"

Paylor inclines her head slightly. "That is my hope," she agrees, "but I don't want to just step into the role. There needs to be choice, democracy- the people need to choose their leader, rather than have their leader chosen for them."

"So hold an election," Enobaria says indifferently. "I don't see why you need to consult us."

"I wanted to know if any of you were interested in running," Paylor explains.

Finnick shakes his head immediately. He wants to be a part of shaping the future, but he certainly doesn't want to be the one directing it. The only one of the victors he thinks might want to is Beetee, but when he looks over, the other man is shaking his head as well.

"Then, once things have calmed down and the smoke clears, I'll need someone to announce the upcoming elections," Paylor remarks, and though she doesn't even look at him, Finnick knows this comment is aimed at him. He, Peeta and Katniss were the face of the rebellion; Katniss is now dead, and Peeta is in no condition to even be at this meeting, so the obvious choice is himself.

"I can do that," Finnick says evenly, though he wants nothing more than to never stand in front of a camera again. All he wants is to make sure this Panem will be safe for him to raise a family in, a country where he can live in peace and not have to worry about the government intervening. Annie grasps his hand tightly, giving him a small smile.

Paylor nods. "Thank you, Finnick."

Finnick shrugs. "Yeah."

"I'll help," Peeta says.

Haymitch laughs into his latest bottle of alcohol.

...

So that was how Finnick found himself standing next to Peeta on a stage disturbingly reminiscent of the one used in Flickerman's interviews about a week and a half after Coin's assassination.

Finnick and Annie tried to see Peeta several times a day, but after about three days of this, he finally snapped and told them that he couldn't stand the sight of them, the sight of two people in love happily reunited when his own love was lying six feet in the ground. Never mind that Katniss had never actually _said_ she loved him, and that she picked him over Gale, and it certainly seemed like she'd picked Gale, didn't it, her committing suicide after Gale had died and leaving Peeta here to deal with the fallout and–

Peeta had broken down crying at that point, curling into himself, mumbling under his breath and staring at the ground. Annie had gone to him immediately, humming softly as she gently embraced him. Finnick had watched, frozen; he wasn't used to the sight of Annie helping someone through a mental breakdown – usually she was the one in the latter position, after all.

It had gone surprisingly...well. Peeta had stopped crying, and Annie had looked at Finnick. "You don't have to stay," she had remarked, and Finnick... had been feeling awkward anyway, so he nodded and went to wait outside Peeta's room.

When Annie had come out of the room, she told him that Peeta wasn't fine, probably wouldn't be for a long time, but as long as they came to visit him separately, the blond would be ok with that – most likely.

Still, this is the first time that Finnick has seen Peeta since then; he's left visiting the blond to Annie, feeling guilty about it but not enough so to actually go see him – which made him more guilty, and–

"All right there, Finnick?" Peeta asks, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He is obviously tired, large bags visible under his eyes though they have been expertly covered by makeup.

Finnick arches an eyebrow in response. "I've been better," he replies dryly.

The blond snorts and turns his attention back to Cressida. She is the one in charge of filming, which is good because if it had been Plutarch, Finnick probably would have mutinied, Peeta along with him.

"Ready?" the woman asks.

"No," Finnick answers, at the same time as Peeta says, "Never."

They exchange a glance, half-smiling at each other. And this – this is ok, Finnick thinks.

Cressida sighs. "Five minutes."

"So, did you write a speech or something?" Peeta asks.

"Beetee wrote one for me," Finnick admits, holding out the cue cards the other victor had given him earlier. "He included parts for you too, if you want."

The blond shakes his head. "I was thinking we should just wing it, actually."

Finnick blinks. "And say what?"

"The government is corrupt? Trust no one?" Peeta says cynically, and it might have been on this side of not funny if Peeta had been joking; since he seems to be completely serious, Finnick panics a little, inwardly.

"Peeta," Finnick says quietly, moving closer to the younger man. He ignores the curious looks of the production crew, feeling grateful when he sees Cressida hustle most of them out a few moments later. "Peeta, I think Paylor is sincere. I feel like... like she can make a difference. She can be the person Coin was supposed to be, a new President who can lead Panem out of its legacy of servitude."

"So you'd trust her unconditionally with your life?" Peeta fires back, his smile slightly crazy and totally insincere. Finnick aches to see it.

"No; but what I'm trying to ask you to do is this: don't poison the people against her, or any of the other candidates who are stepping forward to run, for that matter. People can make informed decisions for themselves, based on the performance of the candidates – they already know that blindly trusting in an authority figure is foolish. There's no need to state it so blatantly."

Peeta closes his eyes, rubs the heel of one hand against his eye, smearing the carefully-applied makeup in the process.

"I suppose that's what they did with Katniss?" he asks, though he obviously knows the answer. "Told her what to say, how to act?"

Finnick flinches at the mention of her name. "She was different, Peeta—"

"Yeah, Katniss was the one they wanted. They picked her up specifically, didn't they? Never mind me, or Johanna, or even Enobaria!" Peeta hisses, suddenly furious. "If they hadn't pushed her- If—"

"She chose to become the Mockingjay," Finnick points out quietly.

"What was the alternative? Let the rebellion crumble? Of course she chose to become their Mockingjay," Peeta spits back. He seems to be shaking, his hands clenching and unclenching as he glares at Finnick.

"She still had a choice," Finnick says.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Peeta mutters, hugging his arms around himself. "I was supposed to die for her- in the first Games, or the Quarter Quell, or in the Capitol... We'd won, Finnick. Why did Katniss- Why—"

"She made her choice, Peeta," he answers, but it doesn't feel like much of an answer; more like a cop-out. Some vague platitude you say because it's socially acceptable – _so and so died; oh, I'm so sorry_.

Peeta nods jerkily, dashing a hand over his eyes. "Let me look over the speech," he says, his voice slightly raspy but his eyes determined. "I'll say my part."

Finnick hands the cue cards (slightly crushed from Finnick's grip on them). "Uh, Peeta? You messed up your makeup," he says cautiously.

The blond looks furious again. "I can't- Damn it, I can't sit through another session with-" He waves his arms vaguely, which Finnick takes to mean his new prep team. He has to agree; just because the Capitol has fallen doesn't mean most of its citizens have suddenly matured or developed fully-functioning consciences or anything like that. They're still pretty much as airheaded as ever, except they voice some complaints about the loss of liberty (i.e. no more ridiculous feasts). Finnick just wanted to punch something when he was done with them. So yes, he can understand Peeta's sentiments.

"It's fine, I can fix it," Finnick assures him, reaching up to carefully smooth his thumb under Peeta's eyes. After a bit of smearing, it looks almost as good as it did before.

"Ease of long practice?" Peeta asks, one eyebrow quirking up.

Finnick has to work not to flinch. "You could say that," he agrees. He's very familiar with smeared and ruined makeup, has had lots of practice attempting to fix, or having to reapply it, thanks to his previous 'engagements'. But Peeta must know this?

"Thanks," Peeta says, and he seems to mean it. Finnick never knows what to think when it comes to the blond, never has and probably never will.

"Ready then?" Cressida asks, re-entering the room, and Finnick steps back, hands dropping his sides.

"I think so... Peeta?" he questions. "You don't have to do this, if you don't want to," he adds quietly.

"I'm... ready," Peeta says, shrugging. "Here, your part's first."

The rest of the filming crew has filed in by then, and Cressida nods. "Three, two-" She mouths _one_ and the lights are focussed on them. Finnick used to enjoy being in the spotlight, but that pleasure has long since faded.

"People of Panem..." he begins, barely glancing at the cards in his hand.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Peeta shaking slightly.

...

And after what seems like an interminable period (though it's probably closer to an hour) Finnick and Peeta practically run out of the studio. Annie is waiting for them in the lobby, and the trio of victors makes their way to the waiting vehicle.

Peeta is pale, his hands shaking much more perceptibly now.

"Finnick, what did you say to him?" Annie asks, sounding almost accusing.

"What? I didn't say anything," Finnick says defensively, before realizing that, ok, maybe he did say a few harsh words.

"He said what I needed to hear," Peeta puts in, giving Annie a reassuring smile. It seems more like a grimace though.

Annie frowns slightly. "Don't let him bully you, Peeta," she says seriously.

"I would never," Finnick mutters, torn between outrage and amusement.

"It's fine, Annie, really," Peeta says, staring down at his hands.

Silence descends. Finnick would really like to grab onto Annie and hold her tightly, but Peeta asked (well, yelled) for them not to do so in his presence, and Finnick can respect his wishes, at least in this.

"Peeta," he begins impulsively. "I don't know what you're planning to do now that-" you're on your own, almost slips out, but he manages to bite his tongue before that little gem can be voiced, "-things have settled down, but you're welcome to come to District Four with us."

Annie and Peeta both shoot surprised glances at him, which he thinks is a little unfair, but then Annie's nodding. "Of course, you're more than welcome to, Peeta," she agrees earnestly.

Peeta shrugs slightly, glancing back down at his hands.

"You don't have to decide now," Finnick assures him. "And we won't be offended if you refuse," he adds.

"Haymitch can come too," Annie tacks on. "I don't like the idea of him alone in District Twelve..."

Finnick nods.

"I don't know," Peeta mutters, finally. "Dr. Aurelius still needs to treat me- I'm not totally safe to be around, yet." _Even if you're not Katniss_, seems to be left unsaid.

"It's an open invitation," Finnick says. "Whenever you want to."

"I'll think about," Peeta says truthfully, and that's all he could ask for, really.

* * *

A/N: Not actually too happy with this one. It didn't really turn out like I wanted, but it gets the job done. :l

Next chapter may be the 74th Games from Peeta's POV, but I'm not sure. I haven't decided if I want to do them, since everyone knows what happens, anyway. We'll see. (And updates will be as sporadic/unreliable as ever ~)

Any thoughts/suggestions/criticisms will be gratefully accepted, by the way. ;)


	4. breaking the habit

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc. The lyrics don't belong to me either.

* * *

Memories consume  
Like opening the wound  
I'm picking me apart again

I'll paint it on the walls  
'Cause I'm the one at fault  
I'll never fight again  
And this is how it ends

- _Breaking the Habit_, by Linkin Park

* * *

**Breaking the Habit**

Peeta lies awake sometimes, staring at the stark white walls of his cell. It's not a cell, but rather a comfortable room in the mental ward of the Capitol's foremost hospital – but he feels as if it is a cell. The only person who ever visits him, aside from Dr. Aurelius, is Haymitch. Peeta seldom goes out.

He thinks he's getting better, sometimes, but it always seems to end with him lying in the comfortable bed, gazing at the featureless walls. He can go days for a time without remembering, and of late he has been turning Finnick's offer over in his mind. It helps him forget, or at least skip over, the events of the past few months.

It doesn't matter as much that his family is dead. The passing of his blunt, harsh mother; his kind, passive father; and his two older brothers, killed in a vicious firebombing from the Capitol, are easier to deal with when he thinks, _Finnick and Annie and Haymitch can be my family now_.

But he has no replacement for Katniss, and her death is so much fresher in his mind. He can recall the traumatic event down to minute details: the sickly wet laugh of President Snow; a surprised inhalation from a nearby soldier; the distress in Finnick's sea-green eyes – and the serene, relieved even, look in Katniss' eyes as she swallowed the nightlock pill.

_Did I cause that?_ he can't help but wonder, his eyes skirting restlessly over the blank walls of his room. _If I hadn't been hijacked – If I hadn't been so cruel to her, if, if..._

It's ironic that after Katniss committed suicide, it is so, so much easier for Peeta to distinguish between the hijacked memories and his true recollections. Apparently without the object of his fakehatereallove constantly near him (or even alive, for that matter), the effects of his hijacking are greatly reduced.

Still, lying awake staring at nothing as he relives painful memories is better than dreaming. Because the dreams are heart-wrenching in that, when Peeta wakes up, he realizes he will never have the chance to experience that sort of future, or present, with Katniss.

He has several recurring dreams, but the dream of his children with Katniss is by far the worst. He can picture the faces of his children – a girl with Katniss-dark hair and Peeta-blue eyes; a boy with merchant-blond hair and Seam-gray eyes – as vividly as he remembers watching Katniss die. The home that they share, Katniss' house in the Victor's Village in District Twelve, the primrose bushes that bloom on their lawn, Haymitch (even _he_ is in this dream) an alcoholic, slightly eccentric uncle to their perfect little family... Every detail is branded into Peeta's memory.

In other dreams, Katniss is with Gale, or they are back in the jungle arena, or running from those horrible mutts in the sewer...

The point is, these dreams don't leave him frozen in his bed, yearning and loss and grief churning through him.

Peeta squeezes his eyes shut, grinding the heel of his palm against his eyes. _Stop. Stop it,_ he tells himself. _It's not real. Katniss is dead. Gale is dead. _

He thinks that he'll never go back to District Twelve. He can't bear to know whether his house is still standing, doesn't want to know what the rubble will look like.

Peeta opens his eyes, his gaze going to the digital clock on the bedside table. 4:57 blinks back at him in bright red. His alarm will go off at 5:00.

He rolls over onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling. He feels exhausted. Dr. Aurelius offered to prescribe him sleeping pills, but he declined. Memories of being plied with pills and injected with unknown substances by his torturers are too fresh for that.

He dozes off just as his alarm goes off, startling him back into wakefulness.

The thing is, Peeta isn't a fighter. He has never had to hunt and kill game to support his family, like Gale had to. Peeta bakes bread and frosts cakes. He has never killed someone in cold blood, like Finnick did. He killed the girl from Eight, but that was an act of mercy. He killed Brutus from District Two, but it was in his own defence. Peeta can't use a bow with the deadly skill and grace that Katniss had. He can wield a gun, it's true, but his shots were always off, his aim sloppy. He is not a man of action. Peeta paints, and uses words rather than actions to get his point across.

Peeta doesn't know how to deal with his problems, doesn't know how to fight back against the memories and dreams and yearnings crowding his mind.

He doesn't even paint anymore, not since Katniss died.

...

Later that day, during his daily appointment with Aurelius, the doctor suggests, "Have you painted lately, Peeta?"

Peeta stares across the desk at the man reclining in his chair. He knows that Aurelius knows that he hasn't painted in a long time. Months. He probably shouldn't be keeping count, but he has been, and he knows that it has been two and a half months exactly since Katniss shot President Coin. It's been about two months since Finnick and Annie left for District Four. They call him, sometimes.

"No," he says, looking out the window at the Capitol skyline.

Aurelius doesn't sigh, but Peeta feels like he does anyway.

"I just don't- I don't want to," he tries to explain.

The doctor nods. "It doesn't have to be anything big, you know. But if you don't want to, don't force yourself, Peeta."

Peeta shrugs. "Am I better yet?" he asks, childishly, his gaze returning to the doctor to see his reaction.

Aurelius barely bats an eyelash. "Do you feel better?" he responds, without answering at all.

_No. _"I want to go to District Four," Peeta says. "Annie and Finnick said I could." He hates how childish that sounds, but it's already been said. And he realizes for the first time that he does mean it – he does want to go to District Four, and see the ocean again, and spend time with Annie and Finnick.

"I can treat you long-distance," Aurelius agrees mildly.

Peeta just gives him a look, like, _you're kidding me, right?_ "Are you sure you're qualified to treat me?" he asks instead.

Aurelius' lips curl up into a smirk. "I was the best doctor in District Thirteen."

"Oh. In that case. I feel so much better. Thanks."

More seriously, Aurelius says, "Of course I'm qualified."

Peeta just nods. "So... I can go to District Four?"

"I'll make the arrangements." The buzzer sitting on Aurelius' desk goes off, signalling the end of their interview – er, appointment.

"Thanks. See you tomorrow," Peeta says, rising to leave.

"Don't forget what I said about painting, Peeta."

He doesn't answer as he walks out the door.

...

Haymitch finds him in the 'activity room'. He's staring at the television, watching a news broadcast about the upcoming elections. A brief clip of Peeta and Finnick from their televised announcement is shown, and then Paylor appears onscreen.

Peeta loses all interest at that point, so it's probably a good thing Haymitch shows up.

"Aurelius said you're thinking of moving to District Four," the older man remarks, sitting down in an armchair opposite Peeta's couch.

"Yeah. Annie and Finnick said I could."

Haymitch raises an eyebrow, and Peeta adds, "They said you could come too, Haymitch."

His former mentor nods, seeming satisfied with that answer. "Good. Aurelius said if I agree to go along to watch you, it'll be easier to sell to the higher ups."

Peeta nods. He doesn't say, _I'm glad you're coming_. He does say, "Thanks."

Haymitch sighs. "You don't need to thank me, Peeta." He looks at the television, but Paylor is still giving a speech of some sort, and he looks away again. Haymitch bounced back with surprising speed after Katniss' suicide, but Peeta supposes twenty-five years of watching children die with you helpless to intervene does that to a person.

"Do you know how long it's going to take, Haymitch?" Peeta asks.

The older man looks at him. "That's up to you, Peeta," he answers, which isn't helpful at all. Peeta tells him as much, and Haymitch just laughs.

"See you later, kid."

...

The next day, during his session with Aurelius, the doctor is frustratingly evasive when Peeta questions him about how long it will be until he can go to District Four.

It doesn't help that he finally fell asleep last night, dreamt of his imaginary children and his imaginary home with his dead wife.

"Can I go, or can't I?" he finally snaps.

"You can go. Eventually," Aurelius tells him.

"When's 'eventually'?" Peeta demands.

"When I think you're ready," comes the infuriating reply.

"You said you could treat me long-distance!"

"I'm not sure you're quite ready for that," Aurelius explains, though this is pretty much what he just said, so Peeta is understandably even angrier.

When the buzzer rings, the only assurance Peeta has is that, when Aurelius deems him 'ready', he and Haymitch will be allowed to go to District Four.

...

Peeta paces his room, looking periodically at the pots of paint and the various brushes sitting innocently on his desk.

"A gift," Haymitch had said, in that mockingly sarcastic way of his.

Peeta had wanted so badly to punch him in the face after that, but he didn't of course. He's not a fighter, and it wasn't really worth it anyway.

His usual retreat of lying awake in bed was destroyed because his gaze kept creeping back to the paint and the brushes.

Finally, Peeta walks out, slamming the door behind him. It wakes up several other residents on his floor, but he doesn't really care at this point. He finds the kitchens in this place, and bullies the early staff into letting him bake some bread.

...

He's in the activity room again, when a nurse comes to get him.

"There's a phone call for you, Mr. Mellark," she tells him with a polite, vacant smile. "I'll connect it to your private line, if you like."

"Thanks," Peeta replies, thinking about how unsettling it is to be called 'Mr. Mellark' as he walks back to his room. Mr. Mellark is his father. Peeta is just... Peeta.

"Hello?" he asks, flopping back onto his unmade bed.

"Peeta!" Annie greets him cheerfully. Peeta smiles to hear her enthusiasm.

"Annie, it's been a while. How are you?" he asks sincerely.

"Good, good. I went swimming with Finnick yesterday," she answers. "How are you, Peeta?"

"Now that I'm talking to you, it's a good day," he tells her, and she laughs.

"So when are you coming to visit us? Or better yet, when are you coming to stay?" Annie asks.

Peeta frowns and looks to the side. His gaze falls on the paints Haymitch gave him. His frown deepens. "I asked Dr. Aurelius and he said I could go when he feels like I'm 'ready'."

"Ah... Well, it'll be soon, I know it," Annie assures him. Peeta wishes he had her confidence. "I can't wait to see you, there's so much I have to tell you and show you."

"Me too," Peeta sighs. "So how's Finnick?"

"He's teaching some of the new residents how to fish," Annie says. "They're pretty bad."

Peeta chuckles. "Sounds fun."

"He complains about it every day," Annie agrees. "Oh, but there was something I wanted to tell you, Peeta. But you have to promise not to tell Finnick."

Peeta raises an eyebrow, feeling a flutter of apprehension. "Ok. I promise."

"I'm pregnant," Annie whispers into the telephone. It feels like she's whispering into his ear.

Peeta is momentarily floored. It's like a punch to the stomach.

"Peeta? Are you there?" Annie asks uncertainly. He can just imagine her worrying at her lip, anxious to hear what he has to say.

"...Yes, I'm still here. I'm just- wow, that's so great, Annie!" Peeta manages to say, faking enthusiasm. He really feels resentment and jealously, which causes him to feel guilty. "I'm so happy for you!"

He can just imagine Annie glowing. "I know... I'm going to name him Magniss."

"Magnus? That's a nice name," Peeta says, not thinking to question the fact that Annie knows she's going to have a son.

"Not Magnus. _Magniss_," Annie corrects him, except Peeta can't discern any difference between the two names. "For Mags and Katniss."

Peeta winces, his guilty doubling. Here he is, being jealous of Finnick and Annie, and she tells him that she's going to name her son after Katniss. "That's... Annie... When are you going to tell Finnick?"

"I don't know. When he's ready," Annie says teasingly. "I wanted to practice on you first."

"That's what I'm here for." It's hard to stay mad at Annie though.

Annie giggles. "Oh! Finnick's home, did you want to talk to him?"

"_Who wants to talk to me?_" Peeta hears Finnick ask in the background.

"Peeta," Annie says.

"It's fine, Annie. I should probably go now, anyway. Say hi to Finnick for me."

"Ok. Bye Peeta!" He hears Finnick echo Annie.

"Bye Annie, Finnick." Peeta hangs up.

He tosses the phone onto the bed beside him and stares at the paints for a long time before dozing off.

...

Peeta dreams of his children that night, except Finnick is in this dream. It's strange, because the copper-haired man is never in any of his dreams.

_They're sitting around the dinner table laughing, nothing unusual, except Peeta is standing in the doorway and Finnick is in his place at the head of the table. Finnick acts like the blue-eyed girl and the blond-haired boy are his children, and for a while Peeta is frozen, watching the not-quite-familiar scene play out with increasing unease. For some reason, he's wearing the uniform from the jungle arena._

_It's when Katniss leans over and pecks Finnick on the mouth that Peeta finally finds the ability to move. He storms into the room, and pulls Finnick to his feet._

"_What do you think you're doing?" he demands, furious. His children and Katniss just stare at him. "This is my family, Finnick!"_

_Finnick stares at him, his trademark playboy smirk on his lips. He moves with the same speed and grace that won him the sixty-forth Hunger Games, knocking Peeta's feet out from under him. He leans over Peeta, his hands pressed down on the younger man's chest. His normal clothes have changed into the blue uniform from the Quell, to match Peeta's own attire.  
_

_ "Oh, Peeta. Don't make me sorry I restarted your heart," Finnick says mockingly, and Peeta suddenly feels a sharp pain in his chest._

Peeta wakes up with a start, clutching his chest with one clawed hand.

He sits in the darkness, his harsh breathing the only sound in the white-walled room.

He slumps back, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. His head falls to the side, and his gaze immediately latches onto the paints.

He thinks that maybe he should stop fighting this. He was never very good at fighting, anyway.

Peeta gets out of bed and paints his children.

...

Aurelius and Haymitch both show up around lunchtime. Peeta's appointments are always before lunch, so he skipped today's. He was too busy painting, and his sessions always made him angry lately anyway.

The desk has been shoved to the middle of the room, to give him a larger canvas to work with. His children stare out from before his and Katniss' house, the blooming primrose bushes behind them. He's in the midst of recreating the rest of the landscape, slowly but steadily eradicating the white of the walls, when Haymitch and Aurelius enter the room without knocking.

"Wow," Haymitch says.

Peeta barely spares him a glance, intent upon recapturing the way the sun fell upon the trees.

"I'm going to need more blue," is all Peeta responds.

"I'll have some sent to District Four," Aurelius answers this time.

This causes Peeta to halt. He straightens up, turning to look at the older men.

"I can go?" he asks.

Aurelius' gaze flicks to what is fast becoming a mural.

"That's it? All I had to do was... was paint something?" Peeta asks, feeling like he should be outraged. He's just relieved, though.

Aurelius shrugs. "You can go to District Four, Peeta. You can leave as early as tomorrow, if you'd like."

Peeta smiles. "I should be finished this by then."

"I'll make the arrangements, then," the doctor says, and leaves the room.

Haymitch is silent as he studies the image before him.

"Who're the kids?" he asks at length, though it sounds like he thinks he already knows the answer.

"No one real," Peeta replies, honestly.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapters. Your feedback really helps motivate me to write this story!

So yeah, no 74th Hunger Games chapter. I figured, everyone knows how it goes, no point in rehashing that any more. I might still end up doing it, but eh.

And yeah, updates will be random as ever. This fic is a lot harder to write than, say, Dead on Arrival. Not that I'm shamelessly advertising that story here, or anything. ;)

As always any thoughts/suggestions/criticisms will be gratefully accepted. Song suggestions too, though I can't guarantee whether or not I'll use it. Depends on what inspires me, and all. But thanks in advance!


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